Strikezone

For state umpires, it's not a job, but a calling By Steve Barlow Republican-American

BRISTOL -- Full disclosure: I belong to two of the most hated groups in America. I work in the media and I umpire. (Yes, my mother has spent many sleepless nights wondering where she went wrong.)

I've umped Little League games for a couple of years, not long, but long enough to know two things.

Umpires see things Mom and Dad sitting alongside the third base dugout don't — like when their son slides into home well ahead of the throw, but misses the plate by an inch.

And most umpires want, most of all, to get it right.

That's why on Saturday, nearly 90 guys in blue and gray passed up a perfect day for golf to instead visit Muzzy Field and learn the art of umpiring from some of the best.

"You may think you're good, but you're never as good as you think you are," said David Soucey, 55, a Watertown teacher and a member of the Central Connecticut Umpires Association, which organized

See UMPS, Page 11B

the event.

The camp was sponsored by Major League Baseball for free (one reason you pay $8 for a Fenway frank) and conducted by five former major league umpires, three former Triple-A umpires, the NCAA's supervisor of umpires and baseball's director of umpire medical services.

The clinic covered more ground than Brett Gardner at Yankee Stadium, everything from the correct way to pivot on an infield play to how much leeway to grant an angry manager to making sure your chest protector protects your chest.

Kevin Moreland, 49, once the quarterback for Naugatuck's 1981 state champions, is now a sales rep in Griswold. After officiating football for 20 years, he was talked into umpiring baseball three years ago.

"I wish I'd done it sooner," said Moreland.

Why did he drive halfway across the state?

"How can you beat a free clinic conducted by major league umpires?" he answered. "You should never stop learning."

If the legendary Bill Klem is the Babe Ruth of umpires, Bruce Froemming is the Henry Aaron.

Unsure what to do after graduating high school in the mid-1950s, Froemming spotted an advertisement for umpire school in The Sporting News. That eventually led to a career spanning 37 consecutive seasons in the majors, the most ever.

Now a special assistant after retiring in 2007, Froemming's 111 postseason games are tops in baseball history, and only Klem's 5,369 total games surpass the 5,162 Froemming worked.

For more than four hours Saturday, Froemming, 73, sat in the batting cage under the third-base stands at Muzzy, barking out advice Yoda-like as his pupils called balls and strikes.

"Hey, Rocky," he growled at one. "Why am I calling you Rocky? Because your head is moving. Keep it still."

Keith Raczkowski, 54, the former Naugatuck girls basketball coach, has umpired for a dozen years at every level from Pee Wee Reese to over-40 leagues. During his stint behind the plate, he earned Froemming's praise for following the pitch right into the catcher's mitt.

"You know you're getting the right information," said Raczkowski. "These are the guys who know. Now when someone asks where'd you get that from, I can say from a guy with 37 years in the major leagues."

The purpose of the camp, one of several held across the country, is two-fold. Helping umpires of all ages and abilities is good for the game at all levels and great PR for Major League Baseball.

But MLB is also looking for the next generation of arbiters. Each camp also serves as a tryout for some umpire to get a scholarship to MLB's weeklong umpire camp in Compton, Calif., in November. It's the first step on a long road to the big leagues.

Cheshire's James O'Donnell, 39, a behavior technician at West Side Middle School in Waterbury, was among those whose showing caught the attention of Charlie Reliford, the 19-year major-league umpire running Saturday's infield drill.

"They took my name and everything," said a hopeful O'Donnell. "I know my age is working against me, but if given the opportunity ...'

And, oh, yes, the camps also perform one more valuable duty. They help to humanize some of the most hated men (and women) in America.

"We are not," Reliford announced, "the black-hearted villains people think we are."

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